Teacher — Poetry — Dan Spier

Poetry

Some people might say that I am a rhymer rather than a poet. I have had the ability to make rhyming lines fairly easily, but I like to think that my poetry has more in it than just rhyme. I love imagery–the sights, sounds, smells, feels and movements of natural things, and I try to make my poetry very concrete and real. For some reason, funerals have been a very large part of my poetic efforts, I suppose because poems celebrate a life better than mere speech. At any rate, I have included some poetry here, and I hope you like it. As always, the subject matter is very diverse.

Here is a poem I wrote while Molly, my wife, was teaching calculus. Her students had told her that they did not understand poetry: that the subject matter was so obscure, meaningless, and irrelevant. She replied that poetry could be about anything. They rebutted by saying, “Right! I suppose you could write a poem about mathematics!” Taking the challenge, she said, “Yes, you could write a poem about math.” “Let us see one then,” they countered. Molly came home and told me the story. “Is there some way we can make a poem about math?” she queried. I said, “Well, if you will help me with the terminology, I will try.” Here is what we came up with.

TRIGONOMETRY
By Dan Spier

There is nothing in life so darn hectic
As a brain in a course trigonometric.
I had much rather study invasions
Of Vandals and Huns than equations.
And especially ones like quadratics!
They’re fit only for fools and fanatics!
While my social life sits and relaxes,
My dumb brain is a blur of Y-axes.
Even tangents and points of inflection,
Make me suffer a loss of direction.
While derivatives—both first and second,
Are a little bit more than I reckoned.
When old fractions turn inverse proportions,
My sinuses go through contortions.
My domain is as strange as an ocean,
And my slope and my range? I’ve no notion!
I think radians are tires for one’s auto,
And determinants words for one’s motto.
Logarithms sound right for percussion,
And matrices good for discussion.
But my function’s velocity’s dropping,
And I sense by acceleration stopping.
My vertex’s endpoint—it dangles,
As I’m swallowed in huge right triangles.
All my maximums minimum weakly,
As my anti-log poem ends bleakly,
I guess if one thinks perpendiculous,
Trigonometry’s not so ridiculous.

This is a poem that I wrote to commemorate a great experience that I had taking a watercolor painting class from a wonderful teacher named Fred Graff. We had an intense four-day workshop with him in Mt. Dora, Florida, a beautiful quaint town north of Orlando. It is quite an art community. This poem is a parody or takeoff on A. E. Housman's "To An Athlete Dying Young." You may remember Meryl Streep reciting this poem at the end of "Out of Africa" when Robert Redford's character died. I changed some words, ideas and rhymes to fit the occasion of our workshop, but I think it works pretty well for the occasion.

(with apologies to A.E. Housman)

The week you came for us to meet,
We cheered you down Mt. Dora's Street.
Guys and gals stood list’ning by,
As art you brought us on the fly.

And now, as vanished are our days
Our glasses shoulder-high we raise,
And send you off to your next town,
To add more praise to your renown.

Smart man, to slip betimes away
From all of us this wistful day:
"Cause slowly as the vignette winds,
It dwindles quickly from our minds.

Eyes that long for truth in art,
Can hardly bear to see you part.
Our questions louder sound than fears:
Our ignorance must hurt your ears.

Now you will never see the deed
Of folks that gave your words such heed --
Painters whom renown might score,
And Fred, you opened the door.

So, go, before your echoes fade,
And other artist's brains invade.
And hold the lofty two-inch brush,
And warn against creative rush.

As round that spattered easel grand
We flock to gaze and understand.
And find untarnished there to dwell
Abstract realism done so well.